They are in the dresser, the second drawer from the bottom. I remember them occasionally while being in the midst of doing something and I say to myself I will take a look at them later when I have time, and then I forget.
I keep them stacked in albums, memories from the past.
Some contain photos from my ‘photographer’ phase. These I have taken myself – photos of flowers, baby hedgehogs and deer, and rainbows over my birth house.
Others were gathered by my family, pictures of people who had died before I was born. There are also photos of passed away distant uncles and aunts, of my cousins when they were little, photos of people I still meet more or less often, and of those whom I grew apart from.
Then there are yet other photos. Those images are printed on my heart, memory of them bringing tears into my eyes even as I am writing this.
My father. My grandmother.
It is because of them that the drawer remains closed.